


bona fides

by demotu



Series: bona fides [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, First Time, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Bona fides: <em>proof of a person's claimed identity</em>.)<br/>“I’m gay, Patrick,” Jonathan interrupts, voice somehow still even and steady when Patrick feels ready to bolt. “I’m gay, and I played hockey. I thought about going pro. I have friends in the league, so—” he shrugs. “Like I said, I’m not crying in any gay bars over this, but I get why you might.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patrick

**Author's Note:**

> This started its life as [a prompt ficlet](http://demotu.tumblr.com/post/79672271116/mpreg-and-undercover-in-a-gay-bar-if-i-can-ask-for) on tumblr (in particular, a trope inversion of "undercover in a gay bar" as "undercover as _straight_ in a gay bar"), and grew into this. I keep being surprised by my own stories, but a lot of that is because everyone keeps encouraging me to discover where they're going--so thanks to everyone who poked and prodded and said "WHAT'S NEXT?" This was a fun ride.

~

 

When Smitty comes out to the team, the first thing Patrick feels is _jealousy_. Smitty’s a great guy and a hard player and is killing it on their fourth-line, but he’s not famous, he’s not had multiple experiences with Deadspin, and he can be pretty sure that even if the media gets word of it, nobody’s going to care enough to ask leading questions in post-game scrums.

None of that is true for Patrick, and he knows he’s really fucking lucky to have the skills and renown he does, but years of half-heartedly picking up girls and getting shitty blow-jobs and trying to avoid having to fuck them, because he just can’t keep it up for that, have made him bitter enough to sometimes wish he could just—have a normal life. Be himself. Be _out_.

He almost tells Smitty about it, when they’re out together with half the team, drunk at a gay bar in support for finding Smitty the best of boyfriends. When Smitty leans in and says, “yeah, what?”, smile wide and open, Patrick gets this wave of feeling like a cowardly hypocrite and has to stumble off the stool and say “bathroom, sorry”.

There’s definitely something filthy going on in one of the three stalls, and the sounds coming out of it are, well. Patrick feels kind of bad for laughing, but those are not sexy whimpers. He knows the reason his shoulders are shaking with barely-restrained laughter while he’s trying not to piss all over the wall is all the stress Smitty’s coming out has brought to the surface, but it’s still pretty fucking funny. Even with another guy coming in and pissing beside him, Pat’s still giggling by the time he’s tucking himself back in.

“Jesus,” the dude says under his breath, tilting his head. The expression he makes is also hilarious, like he’s not sure if it’s funny or irritating, and Patrick has to lean against the sink and stick his head in his hands, gulping down the laughter threatening to spill out. Only, only—shit, somewhere in-between one horse-like whinny and the next, his shoulders are shaking for entirely different reasons than laughter.

“Hey,” the guy says, touching him lightly on one shoulder. “Uh, are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, rubbing his hands into his eyeballs and hiccupping a little. “Sorry, I’m just—”

“Hey assholes,” the guy snaps, banging his fist on the stall door. “Get out of here before I call security!”

Patrick keeps his hands over his face, turning towards the sink while the no-longer-grunting couple bang out of the bathroom. When the room goes quiet again, Patrick pulls his hands away from his face, catching the guy’s steady, concerned gaze in the mirror.

“Thanks,” Patrick says hoarsely, turning on the tap and cupping his hands under it. “Sorry for, uh. Crying in a public bathroom.”

“Whatever,” the guy says dismissively. “Can I—do you need anything?”

Patrick wets his face and rubs his sleeve along his face to dry it before turning back.

“To get out of here?” Patrick says with a shaky grin. “Sorry. Just. Bad day.”

The dude stares at him—damn, he’s got intense eyes, black in the weird bathroom lighting—consideringly for a moment, and then says, “There’s a twenty-four hour café a couple blocks down, if you want.”

Patrick shakes his head, “Nah, I should just go home. No point in crying alone in more public places tonight.”

“Well,” the guy says. “I meant—I could come?” He shrugs a little. “I could use a latte.”

“It’s like, one-thirty in the morning,” Patrick says blankly, as if that’s the main problem with this plan. “And I don’t even know your name.”

“Jonathan,” Jonathan says. “And it’s never too late for coffee.”

Patrick thinks of the team, of going back and pretending to be pretending he’s picking out the hottest guys in the room for Smitty to pick up, and pretending to be weirded out at the dudes grinding on the dance floor, and pretending he thinks boobs are hotter than the broad lines of Jonathan’s shoulders. He looks at Jonathan and his dark eyes and strong arms and serious expression, and figures it’s time he started taking chances with his life.

“Sure,” he says, feeling warm at how Jonathan’s face opens up a little at the yes. “As long as it’s on me.”

 

~

 

The first three things Patrick learns about Jonathan are: he’s almost twenty-eight, is in his third year practicing family law in Chicago, and absolutely knows who Patrick is.

“Sorry,” Jonathan says when they take their coffees—latte for Jonathan, straight black for Patrick—from the cashier who’d fumblingly got Patrick’s autograph. “I wasn’t trying to pretend I didn’t know, or anything.”

“It’s all right,” Patrick says, a little tense but trying not to freak out and leave. He’s giving this a _chance_ , and it’s not like—it’s not like Jonathan knows he’s gay. He wasn’t in that bar _because_ he’s gay, and if that’s the ‘truth’ he has to tell this guy, he will. “You a hockey fan, then?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, sinking into one of the armchairs tucked in a quiet corner, electric fireplace burning next to them. “That’s not why—I’m not a Hawks fan or anything. If I hadn’t recognized you, I’d still have….” He waves his hand around at the room. He’s got nice hands—long fingers, broad palms. Strong-looking grip.

“S’cool,” says Patrick, leaning back in his chair and watching Jonathan over the rim of the oversized mug. “Except the part about not being a Hawks fan. This is Chicago, dude.”

“I’m Canadian,” Jonathan shrugs.

“Habs? Leafs?”

“Avs,” Jonathan says, and Patrick laughs.

“Fucking Nordiques. You don’t sound like a Quebecker, though.”

“Half. I’m from Winnipeg, but I left before the Jets came back.”

“Lucky for you, then!”

It’s easy as usual to relax into hockey-talk, a little chirping and a little finding out that Jonathan played as a kid, pretty competitively, and got a scholarship to UND for hockey.

“Fighting Sioux?” Patrick asks, a little impressed. They’re a good team, which means Jonathan could have been drafted.

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “Only played one year, though—couple bad injuries and I just…” he trails off, shrugging. “Sometimes it doesn’t work out.”

Patrick nods; even though it’s not something he knows personally, he had plenty of friends in the minors who saw their promising careers derailed for this or that reason.

“I’m happy, though,” Jonathan says, watching Patrick with dark eyes. “A little less student debt would be nice, but the work’s good. And I’m not crying in the bathroom of Chicago’s finest gay bars.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says tiredly. “It wasn’t—I was there with a friend. We all were.”

“Uhuh,” Jonathan says skeptically. He tilts his head back to finish the last of his coffee, and Patrick can’t look away from the long line of throat, working to swallow in the soft light. He’s still staring when Jonathan puts the mug down on the table between them, and leans in.

“Look,” Jonathan says. “I’m a lawyer, okay? I’m not going to say anything, and if you want proof, we can draw up an NDA.”

Patrick swallows, looks up to meet Jonathan’s eyes. “What would we need that for?”

Jonathan’s eyes drop when Patrick licks his lips instinctively, and just that glance is so _good_ Patrick feels sick with want.

“Up to you,” Jonathan says, dragging his gaze back up. “You wanna just talk, we can do that. I’m a good listener.”

“What’s in it for you?” Patrick says hoarsely. His own hands are trembling a little, and he has to put his own mug down between them. Jonathan catches his hand when he does, pressing it flat to the table and rubbing his thumb along the jut of Patrick’s wrist.

“Well,” Jonathan says, low and steady and Patrick lists forward a little to, fuck, to hear him. “I’m hoping you might want to do more than just talk. Eventually.”

Patrick doesn’t know what to say. He’s never said yes. He’s never thought yes was a _possibility_ , before. His palm is sweaty against the table, underneath Jonathan’s warm hand, and his fingers curl in when Jonathan squeezes tight, once, and lets go.

“Like I said,” Jonathan says, standing. “Up to you.”

Patrick lets his gaze fall down to Jonathan’s wide, pink mouth, down to the hollow of his throat, down to his broad chest, nipples visible under the tight, white shirt underneath his open coat, and then looks back up. Everything in him that’s kept him from doing this for a decade is screaming to walk away, but he’s just so _tired_ of it, feels so close to falling apart, and something about Jonathan says he would be able to pick up the pieces.

“Okay,” Patrick says, blood rushing in his ears as he stands. “Yours or mine?”

 

~

 

Jonathan has a roommate, so as much as Patrick thinks a place he can escape _from_ would be preferable, the idea of anybody else seeing him is unbearable enough to catch a cab together back to Trump Tower. Jonathan seems to catch Patrick’s nervousness, and picks back up with the hockey-talk, breaking down a play Dutchy had made with Kaner against Detroit last week.

“I thought you didn’t watch the Hawks,” Patrick says as they wait for the elevator.

“I liked Duchene when he was on the Avs,” Jonathan says, because of course he did. “When the Hawks picked him up I kept an eye on him.”

“Right,” Patrick says, and they fall into silence the rest of the way up and into Patrick’s condo. Jonathan follows Patrick from the hallway into the kitchen and watches as Patrick grabs a couple of glasses and fills them up at the fridge. Their fingers brush when Patrick passes him one, and Patrick has to bite his lip, electrified. He downs his water in quick gulps.

“Gotta take a leak,” he says, putting his glass by the sink and edging sideways by Jonathan around the island. “Feel free to, uh, make yourself at home.”

Jonathan smiles at him over his water glass. “Sure.”

Patrick ducks into the hallway bathroom. He does have to piss, thanks to the ill-advised late-night coffee that’s definitely adding to his jitters, but he’s got to take a couple deep breaths and think _it’s like a game, it’s like a game_ to bring his heart rate down enough first. He’s played elimination game sevens, this isn’t, this _can’t_ be anything like that pressure.

Still, when he comes out and sees the low lighting Jonathan’s turned on in the living room down the hall, augmenting the city glow through the curved, floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tower, the nervousness rushes back. Jonathan’s perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he flicks through a _Rolling Stone_ on the coffee table. Patrick stops just inside the room to stare, because—god, the guy looks good in the soft lighting of Patrick’s condo. The skin of his arms is warm and golden against the white of his t-shirt, stretched tight over biceps that you definitely _don’t_ get from pushing papers. With the way Jonathan is sitting forward, Patrick can follow the arch of his shoulders, his back, down to the curve of his ass under tight jeans. Patrick’s in great shape, obviously—that’s his life—but he’s sure he doesn’t look like _sex_ the way Jonathan does right now.

He wrenches his eyes back up to Jonathan’s face when Jonathan turns his head to spot him.

“Nice place you’ve got,” Jonathan says, leaning against the back of the couch, legs splayed, fuck, _invitingly_. Patrick wants to crawl between them and see if his thighs feel as solid as they look. “You can do more than look, you know.”

Patrick flushes, and steps all the way in the room. “Sorry,” he says. “You look good on my couch.” _Fuck_ , what is he even saying.

Jonathan just grins, though, and not like he’s laughing at Patrick, like he’s flattered, so Patrick comes over and sits down next to him.

“So,” Jonathan says, head tilted to watch Patrick with eyes that are still so fucking dark, but this close Patrick can see the warmth of the brown. “I figure either you can tell me why your day was so shitty, or we can talk more hockey, or…”

“Or?” Patrick says, hands tight on his own knees.

“Or you can kiss me,” Jonathan says. “Up to you.”

Patrick swallows. “None of this is up to you, huh?”

“I’m good with any of it,” Jonathan says, but his eyes drop to Patrick’s mouth momentarily. Patrick curls his tongue along his bottom lip, automatic and familiar, but when Jonathan’s eyes dart back up they’re a little narrowed. “If you keep doing that, though, I’m gonna be unhappy if you don’t eventually kiss me.”

Jesus, Patrick has never wanted to do anything more in his life. Or maybe—he’s never wanted and felt like leaning forward and pressing his lips to another man’s mouth was something he could actually _do_. He turns in to Jonathan, bringing one knee up on the couch between them, the other foot pressed to the floor for leverage up. He braces a hand on Jonathan’s far shoulder so he can lean in until they’re nose to nose, his other hand squeezing tight on the back of the couch. Jonathan keeps his eyes open until Patrick tilts a little and slots their mouths together, familiar but so, so new.

It’s a soft kiss, wet and exploring, and Jonathan’s mouth is as wide as Patrick’s, lips pliant as Patrick slips his tongue along them. He tastes like coffee and smells like the club, sweaty and boozy, his shoulder warm under Patrick’s grip where Patrick’s squeezing and releasing mindlessly. Jonathan keeps steady, pressing back with his mouth but leaving his arms braced along the back of the couch, until Patrick pulls back a little to breathe. When Patrick feels Jonathan’s hand slide down his ribcage to rest on his hip, he shudders, eyes squeezing shut.

Jonathan drops his hand away, and Patrick opens his eyes, frowning. “What?”

Jonathan bites at his lower lip, but it isn’t purposely sexual; it’s definitely edging on concerned. Patrick pushes back on Jonathan’s shoulder, ready to pull away, but Jonathan reaches across to hold his wrist in place.

“You haven’t done this much, have you?”

“Fuck you, I’ve kissed lots of people,” Patrick says, feeling a little stung. It had felt like a good kiss, nothing he’d expect someone to turn around and say _inexperienced_ over.

“Girls,” Jonathan says. “Not people.”

“You don’t know—”

“I’m gay, Patrick,” Jonathan interrupts, voice somehow still even and steady when Patrick feels ready to bolt. “I’m gay, and I played hockey. I thought about going pro. I have friends in the league, so—” he shrugs. “Like I said, I’m not crying in any gay bars over this, but I get why you might.”

“So you’re saying this is a problem,” Patrick says, pulling his wrist out of Jonathan’s grip and sitting back. “Fuck you for—”

“ _No_ ,” Jonathan says, now sounding a little frustrated. He slides a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I’m saying it’s up to you. That’s all.”

“I…” Patrick trails off. “Do you even—are you even interested? I’m not anybody’s pity fuck, man.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to be a good guy here, asshole, by _not_ fucking you. Not the other way around, christ.”

Patrick inhales, semi twitching in his jeans, at Jonathan’s words, and _god_. He doesn’t give a fuck that he met this guy an hour ago, that he could be fucking everything over here. He _wants_ , even if he has no fucking clue how to take.

“Whatever I want, huh?” Patrick says after a moment, trying to haul himself back into coherence.

“ _Yes_.”

“Then stop telling me it’s up to me. I don’t—I don’t know what I want. _Show me_.”

Jonathan’s eyes go wide, at that, and then he narrows them, jutting his chin up challengingly.

“Yeah?” Jonathan asks huskily.

“If you think you’d be good at it,” Patrick says, and _oh_ , he thinks at the flash of Jonathan’s eyes, he might not have anything else, here, but he’s got Jonathan, and Jonathan, he’s pretty sure, is going to have him _good_.

 

~

 

Jonathan’s got Patrick stretched out flat along the couch, knees bracketing Patrick’s thighs as he kisses him thoroughly. Patrick’s head is resting against one of Jonathan’s arms, tucked behind him, and his hands are wandering desperately over Jonathan’s body where it’s curved above Patrick’s. Patrick slides his hands across Jonathan’s pecs, grips his firm waist, reaches back to drag his nails along Jonathan’s shoulders. Jonathan’s making soft, pleased sounds under Patrick’s hands, his own free hand resting against Patrick’s throat, fingers stroking gently.

“Damn, you’re hot,” Patrick mutters when Jonathan pulls back from the kiss to stare down at him, thumb rubbing into the hollow of Patrick’s throat. “Didn’t let up at the gym, huh.”

“Old habits,” Jonathan says, firm shoulders shrugging under the thin t-shirt.

“Can you—” Patrick starts, sliding his hands down Jonathan’s back to twist into the hem of his t-shirt. “I want to see.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, sliding his arm out from behind Patrick so he can sit up and pull the shirt off over his head in a smooth flex of muscles. Patrick trails his fingers along Jonathan’s abs before he emerges from the shirt; they jump hard when he makes contact. Once he’s tossed it to the side, Jonathan doesn’t lean back to kiss, just stares down with a flush on his cheeks.

Patrick sits up on an elbow and rubs his fingers into Jonathan’s smooth skin. When they drift down to hook into the tight waistband of Jonathan’s jeans, Patrick can see Jonathan’s dick twitch where it’s pressed tight against his jeans. He swallows hard, fingers itchy with the need to touch, skin burning with the sight of Jonathan, hot and hard and _male_ over him. He’s never even slid his fingers across another guy’s dick, accidental or on purpose (never wrestled with teammates, never joined in the friendly shower hazing in juniors, kept layered up and eyes down in the room) and now Jonathan’s is right there, in front of his face, straining and hard for Patrick.

“I—” Patrick starts. His voice breaks, he swallows hard. His own dick is pressed between his jeans and his hip, and when he pushes up against Jonathan’s heavy weight on his thighs, the pressure of the fabric alone makes him flush. “I don’t—”

“Hey,” Jonathan says, pressing his palms to Patrick’s hips, thumbs rubbing in steady, electrifying circles. “Relax.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick says, embarrassed at his own neediness.

“Not tonight,” Jonathan says, and Patrick absolutely can’t help the whine he lets out, can’t help unhooking his fingers from Jonathan’s jeans to drop his hand on his dick and press.

“God,” Jonathan says, rubbing a hand across his wide mouth, red from Patrick’s scruff. “You’re so—fuck.”

“So what?” Patrick pants, pressing the heel of his hand into the base of his dick. He’s so wound up, so on edge it’s like he’s sixteen again and trying not to go hard from the Knight’s trainer helping him with his form in the gym.

Jonathan drops his hand from his own mouth and reaches for Patrick’s instead, slides his fingers along Patrick’s lips until Patrick’s mouth drops open, instinctive, and then presses them inside. Patrick moans at the press of them against his tongue, and again when Jonathan draws them out to rub slickly along his lips.

“I can’t believe nobody’s done this to you before,” Jonathan says, thumb rubbing along Patrick’s lower lip, then trailing down his chin to slide against his neck. Patrick shuts his eyes and whimpers at the lightening-hot sensation of it, fingers curling tight against his dick until Jonathan grabs his wrist and tugs it off.

“I’m not a fucking virgin, man,” Patrick says, twisting in frustration. “I’ve had lots of sex.”

“Yeah?” Jonathan says, eyes narrowing. He lifts his hand from Patrick’s neck and presses it instead against Patrick’s cock, palm down and fingertips sliding firmly against the head. Patrick folds his arm behind his head, falling back into the couch. He strains up against the pressure as best he can, held down by Jonathan’s weight on his thighs. “I think you’ve only ever fucked women. I think you’ve only ever _tried_ to fuck women.”

“So what,” Patrick grits out, cock jumping hard under the undulations of Jonathan’s hand, the rub of his fingers into the head. _God, god, god_ , he’s never felt anything so good, and they’re still wearing everything but Jonathan’s t-shirt. He twists his hand under Jonathan’s grip, and Jonathan pulls it back, pressing their hands to his stomach.

“So I think,” Jonathan says, voice smooth and confident, “that in every way that counts for _you_ , you are a virgin.”

Patrick’s red, but it’s not—jesus, Jonathan’s not wrong, not even a little bit, and Patrick can’t even lie when he’s embarrassingly close to shooting off in his boxers.

“Stop,” he says, and Jonathan pulls back sharply. It takes Patrick a moment to catch his breath, to realize, to stop Jonathan from moving further away with a hand on his hip.

“No, I mean, I’m just—” He’s blushing from it, turns his face to look out at the living room instead of up at Jonathan’s face. He takes a breath, says to the room, “I seriously don’t want to come in my pants.”

There’s a pause, like Jonathan’s considering, and then Patrick twitches when fingers start working at his fly, unbuttoning and unzipping and Patrick looks back up at the determined look on Jonathan’s face and thinks, _oh, fuck_. The cool touch of Jonathan’s fingers, sliding into his boxers, against his cock makes Patrick swear. The quick, tight stroke Jonathan starts up when he pulls Patrick’s dick out, makes Patrick _twist_ with it.

It’s over so fucking fast, Patrick wound up and needing so god damned much that just this little bit Jonathan is giving him makes him melt down and burn up and spurt up over his own shirt and down Jonathan’s knuckles. It’s nothing like masturbating, and even less like the perfunctory, gritted out orgasms he’s used to willing into existence with girls, focus narrowed down like it is on a drill. This is anything but a drill, it’s the exhilaration of a game, all instinct and victory and it takes him hard, leaves him flayed open instead of closed down. Even though he’s felt like crying after sex dozens of times before, this is the first time he’s done it, tears sliding out in the come-down, unbidden.

“Shit, shit,” he says, hoarse and trembling, tucking his face into his own bicep. “You’re, fuck. Really getting a messed-up show tonight, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jonathan says, hand still cupping his softening dick, knuckles pressed against Patrick. “Seriously, it’s fine.” He rubs his fingers in, and Patrick whines with it, oversensitive, until Jonathan lets go. He waits, quiet and steady over Patrick, until Patrick gets his shit back together, rubs the collar of his shirt across his face, and looks back up.

“Do you want me to go?” Jonathan asks, still hard and straddling Patrick, but leaning back, giving him some space.

Patrick shakes his head, but says, “Only if you want to. I know I’m fucked up, but—”

“You’re not,” Jonathan says, firmly, like he knows more than two things about Patrick, like he believes it. “You’re not, and you’re perfect like this, and I really, really don’t care if it makes me a bad person, but I want to put my dick in your mouth more than anything.” He smiles, a little sheepish, when he finishes, and Patrick gapes.

“Yeah?” Patrick says, uncertainly. He swallows against the rush of saliva in his mouth, presses his tongue against the front of his teeth. “I don’t—”

“I think you’ll like it,” Jonathan says, climbing off Patrick to stand up and stretch, smooth lines of his torso exaggerated in the dim lighting.

Patrick sits up and slides his feet to his floor, tucking himself back in. He reaches forward to catch Jonathan by the hip and pull him in between Patrick’s knees. When he looks up Jonathan’s body, Jonathan slides a hand against his jaw, staring down with hooded eyes.

“I’ll show you,” Jonathan says softly. “I said I would.”

 

~

 

Patrick gets it together enough to suggest they move this to his bedroom—more room to stretch out, and fewer giant windows he’s too lazy to close the curtains on. The bedroom is warm and dark behind his blackout curtains. Patrick flicks on the bedside table lamp and turns around to watch Jonathan strip entirely. It’s not a show, but Jonathan’s jeans are tight enough he has to work them down over his ass before he can strip them and his briefs off, toeing off his socks into the puddle of clothing on the floor.

“You should take off your shirt,” Jonathan says, nodding at it. Patrick blinks, and then looks down at his chest, come-stains obvious against the dark blue of it.

“Uh,” he says, when Jonathan steps forward and folds the t-shirt up his chest. Patrick brings his arms up for Jonathan to work it over Patrick’s head. After he tosses it aside, Jonathan puts an arm on Patrick’s shoulder, slides his mouth against Patrick’s, and runs a hand over Patrick’s crotch.

“Think I’ll need a few minutes,” Patrick says, shivering at the pressure.

Jonathan presses his lips to Patrick’s jaw and opens his jeans back up anyway, pushing them down his hips. “Might as well be comfortable,” he says. He lets Patrick step out of them and then pushes him over to the edge of the bed.

“It’ll be easier on your neck, this way,” Jonathan explains as Patrick sinks down to sit on the edge. When Patrick just stares up, dumbly, he frowns and presses a hand to Patrick’s jaw. “You okay? You don’t have to.”

Patrick shakes his head, trying to clear the daze that, if he’s honest, isn’t just post-orgasmic.

“It’s strange, that’s all,” he says, reaching out to run his hands up the warm skin of Jonathan’s thighs to rest on his hips. He leans back a little so he can meet Jonathan’s eyes, show him he’s all here. “To be able to look.”

“Locker-room etiquette, eh?” Jonathan asks with a soft smirk. He presses his own hands over Patrick’s, pushing them in. “You can look your fill, here. I don’t mind.”

Patrick licks his lips and does, deliberate and thorough as he traces the lines of Jonathan’s body with his eyes. He looks, and he thinks of everything he wants to touch, everything he _can_ touch: the cords of Jonathan’s neck, shifting as he swallows, the small, hard points of his nipples, the firm planes of his stomach, smooth and hairless down to his neatly trimmed pubic hair, coarse and dark. Patrick’s gaze almost skips right down over Jonathan’s dick on hard-won instinct, but he sits a little straighter and stares forward instead.

Jonathan’s dick is long and slim, with a round, red head that peeks out of his foreskin. It jumps, once, under Patrick’s gaze, and again when Patrick licks his lips and swallows, mouth wet.

“Like being looked at, huh?” Patrick asks, feeling a little steadier at Jonathan’s undeniable arousal.

“It’s not bad,” Jonathan admits, hands tightening on Patrick’s. He lets go and reaches out to slide one hand into Patrick’s hair, grasping his dick in the other.  “I think I’ll like watching you lick it more, though.”

“Shit,” Patrick says, fingers twitching into Jonathan’s skin. He’s half-hard again, already, cock swelling in his boxers against his thigh. “Yeah, okay.”

Jonathan tugs gently on the back of his head until Patrick leans in, hands still braced on Jonathan’s hips, and Patrick slides his tongue out to catch at the head. Patrick’s stomach tightens at the taste, sharp and salty, and he lists forward to be able to lick up along the vein and trail his tongue, tightly pointed, over the slit.

“Yeah,” Jonathan says roughly, when Patrick does it again, fingers rubbing against Patrick’s scalp. “That’s perfect.”

Patrick flushes at the praise, but with his mouth pressed to Jonathan’s dick he can’t duck down and hide his face. Instead, he lets the feeling of rightness wash over him and wraps his lips around Jonathan’s dick, eyes falling shut. Jonathan makes a small, pleased noise, pulling his foreskin back as Patrick pushes forward to suck the head into his mouth, tongue dragging in slow circles. The soft skin, the way the swollen head gives under his tongue, the hard ridge of the shaft as Patrick presses his teeth against his lips to squeeze—it sends Patrick reeling, blood rushing to his own cock.

He must make a sound, because Jonathan pulls him back by his hair and tilts his face up, gentle. “You okay?” Patrick’s eyes flutter open, Jonathan’s concerned expression half-registering before he sways forward again. Jonathan’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Patrick.”

“I’m good, jesus,” Patrick says, frustrated. He wants to keep going, he wants Jonathan to stop holding back, to let him suck until he can’t taste anything but the musky warmth of Jonathan’s cock. “Let me suck your dick already.”

Jonathan laughs. “Guess I was right.”

“What?”

“You do like it,” Jonathan says, pushing his hips forward to slide his dick across Patrick’s cheek and press against Patrick’s mouth. Patrick doesn’t open, frowns and pulls away instead.

“Are you making fun of me, dude?”

“No, god,” Jonathan says, hand in his hair tightening and then falling away. “It’s amazing.”

Patrick chews on his lip and looks up at Jonathan’s face, skeptical, but he can’t see anything but lust and honesty in Jonathan’s expression, so he shrugs and leans back in and takes Jonathan as far in as he can.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jonathan says, thumbing Patrick’s bottom lip. Patrick breathes sharply in through his nose, tongue pressing flat and hard against Jonathan’s dick. “Fuck.”

It’s not difficult, not really. Patrick’s had lots of blow jobs, knows what will get him there, even if it’s never great. It’s better than trying to fuck a chick, better than having to stare in her eyes while she jerks him off. And he’s thought about it, eyes shut and hands fisted on the bed while his latest hook-up swallows him, how he’d do it. He’s thought about how it would feel, head knocking at his throat. How he’d tighten his lips around his teeth and slide, wet friction along another guy’s dick. How he’d press the smooth back of his tongue against the head when he pulls off, let it fold, thick, as he pushed a cock back through wet lips.

Patrick tries everything, and finds out how his lips go numb under his own teeth, how if he slides forward slowly he won’t choke as much, how the messier he is, the better it feels to pull off and let Jonathan push back in between his slick lips. Patrick realizes that, even more than the feel of it, it’s Jonathan’s low grunts and harsh breathing that make his own dick leap, and discovers that if he cups Jonathan’s balls firmly they’ll tighten up, Jonathan’s sounds now outright groans.

“Damn, I’m gonna—” Jonathan grits, hand working the base of his dick in counterpoint to Patrick’s mouth, uneven like he can’t help jerking off but wants to hold back. “Pull off, pull, _fuck_.”

Patrick does, and gets hot pulse of come across his lips before Jonathan pushes his dick down and spurts across Patrick’s collarbone, fisting his spit-slicked skin rapidly.

“Christ,” Jonathan mutters, steadying himself with a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick lets go of Jonathan and reaches up to rub the wet line of come off his mouth with his thumb and then suck it in.

“Idiot,” Jonathan says breathily, wide-eyed and flushed. “Shouldn’t let hook-ups come in your mouth.”

Patrick knows he should care, but can’t, for the life of him, stop from licking widely around his mouth, chasing the taste before sliding his arm across his chin and lips to dry off.

“Wanted to taste it,” he says, a little defiant. “You clean?”

“Yeah, but still,” Jonathan says. “Gotta build good habits.”

“Haven’t really needed them,” Patrick says, too turned on to put any bitterness in it. “Probably not gonna, either.”

Jonathan gives him an unhappy look, but drops to the carpet and wraps his hands around Patrick’s knees, squeezing tight and making Patrick’s dick leap hard in his boxers. When he leans in, nudging Patrick’s chin out of the way, and licks his own come off Patrick’s collarbone, Patrick falls back on his hands with a startled groan.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he manages, hips jerking up into air as Jonathan licks him clean. “You’re—fuck man.”

Jonathan pushes him back into the bed, tongue laving down his chest to trace a nipple. Patrick pushes up on his toes, cock pressing into Jonathan’s stomach as he leans over him. Jonathan slides a hand over Patrick’s stomach and pushes him down, leaving him aching and untouched as he works a steady, wet trail down Patrick’s body. Patrick’s shaking when Jonathan licks a line along the edge of his boxers, and bites out a yell when Jonathan presses his open mouth around his covered dick and breathes, damp and fiery hot, through the fabric.

“Come on, please,” Patrick says, hooking his heels around the back of Jonathan’s thighs and digging in. “Suck me, suck me, suck me.”

Jonathan works his tongue against the straining head of Patrick’s dick until his boxers are soaked, the rough wetness of the cotton making him sob out a _please_.

Jonathan lets out a muffled “fuck” and presses his forehead into Patrick’s hip before sitting up. He unwraps Patrick’s legs from behind him with strong hands, pushing them up until Patrick’s heels are on the bed between them. Patrick lifts his hips eagerly when Jonathan tugs his boxers down and off.

“Gonna make it good, so good,” Jonathan croons, parting Patrick’s thighs again with a wide, steady press of his palms until Patrick’s feet drop back to the floor. Patrick struggles up on his elbows, needing more than anything to watch as Jonathan curves down and swallows his fattened cock, throat working around the over-sensitive head.

“Oh _god_ ,” Patrick says, falling back to the bed and sliding his hands, unbidden, into Jonathan’s hair. “You were—fuck fuck fuck—not kidding— _Jonathan._ ”

Maybe round three, he thinks dizzily, back arching as Jonathan presses behind his balls and works his throat around Patrick’s cock. Maybe round three he’ll be able to last.

He’s not holding out hope, though.

 

~

 

They do make it a third round, for Patrick, at least, with Jonathan spooned up behind him, jerking him off with a slick hand, his mouth sucking gently at the skin of Patrick’s neck. After he wrings Patrick dry, Jonathan rolls him on his back and jerks off into the skin of Patrick’s belly, Patrick’s muscles still twitching down from his orgasm when Jonathan spills across them.

“Stay,” Patrick says when Jonathan starts to roll away. “It’s late, you’ve gotta be drained.”

“Alright,” Jonathan says, sagging back into the pillows, looking sleepy and satisfied and like the most beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen. By the time Patrick gets back from the washroom, cleaned off and teeth brushed, Jonathan is passed out, face mashed into a pillow and sheets pulled up around his waist. Patrick stares at the curve of his ass, wishing he could run his hands over it, and then shakes his head. Jonathan might be naked in his bed, but he’s still essentially a stranger. In the morning—maybe. Patrick slides into bed next to Jonathan and falls asleep, heavy and sated.

 

~

 

When Patrick wakes, Jonathan is still fast asleep, curled in towards the middle of the bed. It’s early, and as far as he knows, Jonathan actually worked yesterday, so he leaves him to sleep. Three quarters of an hour, a shower, sweats, and a cup of coffee later, Jonathan finds him in the kitchen, fully-dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

“Hey,” Patrick says, tilting his head towards the coffee machine. “There’s coffee. And you can borrow a shirt and boxers, for real.”

“No,” Jonathan says, and it’s a little sharper than Patrick was expecting. He puts his mug down, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

Jonathan shakes his head, looking a little uneasy. “I shouldn’t have stayed the night, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says slowly, taking a step forward. Jonathan’s lips tighten but he doesn’t move back, at least. “What, do you have a boyfriend or something?”

“No!” Jonathan says loudly, tensing up. Patrick steps back, suddenly nervous, but Jonathan deflates quickly and pushes his hands through his hair. “Sorry. This is a one-night thing, you know? It’s bad form to stay the night.”

“Yeah, but,” Patrick starts, licking his lips nervously. “It doesn’t have to be? I mean. We could do breakfast, hang out. No pressure or anything.”

“That would be a bad idea,” Jonathan says, looking unhappy.

“ _Why_?” Patrick asks sharply. “Last night was good.”

“It was,” Jonathan says, rubbing his fingers into his neck. “It was great. And I—I know I said we could just talk, but we didn’t, and I couldn’t not want that, again.”

“I don’t get it,” Patrick says flatly, stomach rolling with the hangover he doesn’t have.

Jonathan says, “I don’t do fuckbuddies, or casual or whatever. One night, okay, but anything more and—and I get possessive. I like actually dating people.”

“So?” Patrick says challengingly.

Jonathan raises both eyebrows, gestures at Patrick. “You aren’t exactly about to let me take you out.”

“I—”

“Not in public. And that’s—I’m not in the closet, Patrick. I can’t date someone who is. And you—you really are.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, anger rushing out of him as quickly as it came. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, blowing out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry, I’d really like to. Any other circumstances and I’d say let’s do breakfast, and lunch, and then maybe dinner, but I just. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Patrick says numbly, looking down at the half-empty mug he’s gripping in his hands, fingers white against the black glaze. “I know I’m messed up.”

“You’re—”

“Don’t say I’m not,” Patrick interrupts, exhausted. He sits down on a stool, shoves the mug across the granite counter.

“Maybe a little,” Jonathan admits.

“Yeah.” Patrick gives him his best media-smile, the one he uses when he fucked up but they still won the game. Jonathan frowns back at him, glances around and pulls the white-erase marker off the fridge. He scrawls a number across it before putting the marker down and turning back to Patrick, looking determined.

“Listen,” he says. “If that ever changes, if you ever end up somewhere, some place in your life where you want to go out, with me. Get in touch. No promises or anything, but. You should.”

“Sure,” Patrick says, trying to imagine a world where he could bring Jonathan to family skate and shutting his eyes against the impossibility of it. He opens them when a hand lands on his on the countertop.

“It’d be worth it,” Jonathan says, squeezing his fingers.

“The sex wasn’t that good,” Patrick says, trying for joking and dismissive and missing both by a mile.

“I mean, for you,” Jonathan says. “Whether or not you call me. You should think about it.”

Patrick pulls his hand out from underneath Jonathan’s and lies, “Yeah, sure. You should go.”

“Right,” Jonathan says, heading back towards the hallway. “Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“The sex definitely was that good.”

It’s a joke, Patrick thinks, and also the point.

“Fuck off,” he says tiredly, too quietly for Jonathan to hear in the hall. When the front door shuts, he puts his head down on the cool counter and breathes.

 

~

 

 


	2. Jonathan

~

**20 Months Later**

~

  


Jonathan’s wrapping things up with a client, her son squirming in Jonathan’s lap while they go over the last details of the court-ordered visitation agreement, when his phone lights up with a message from an unknown number. A quick glance says it’s nothing important, so he finishes up and passes Gabriel back.

“ _If you have any questions, or if anything goes wrong, you have our number and email,”_ he says in practiced Spanish, leaning down a good foot or so to accept the kiss Anita plants on his cheek before seeing the two of them out his office door. When he turns back and picks his cell off his desk, he thumbs the notification all the way open.

_You busy saturday evening? There’s a Hawks-Avs game you should come to._

Jonathan frowns—he’s got a couple hockey friends in Chicago, but this isn’t from them.

_Who is this?_

_Patrick Kane_ comes back right away, and Jonathan feels his mouth drop open. He hits call, rubbing his hand to his jaw while he waits for the phone to ring.

“Hey!” he gets, enthusiastic.

“Uh,” Jonathan answers, a little wary. “Hey.”

“Jonathan? Right? It’s Patrick.”

“Yeah, it’s Jonathan,” he says, fingers digging into his neck, suddenly nervous.

“Oh good,” Patrick says, his exhale loud through the speaker. “I was worried you’d like, moved out of town and changed your number and I was offering tickets to a stranger.”

“No, still in Chicago,” Jonathan says slowly. “Tickets?”

“If—yeah. If you’re free? Shit, sorry, I know this is weird.”

“I’m free,” Jonathan says. Technically, he’s already _got_ tickets to the game, but when he thinks about the video he’d watched on the NHL website last week, it doesn’t seem like a useful thing to add. “I saw your _You Can Play_ , by the way. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, with a little laugh. “I—this is kind of about that, I guess. I know it was just—what it was, a hook-up, but, uh.”

“No, I get it,” Jonathan says, interrupting Patrick’s stuttered, nervous explanation. “It wasn’t just a hook-up.”

“Not for me,” Patrick says, self-deprecating, and Jonathan shakes his head, unseen.

“Not for me, either.” It hadn’t been just a hook-up, not at any point during or after what Jonathan still considers one of the most intense nights of his life. Giving Patrick everything Jonathan had been able to, and watching him unravel from the tense, unhappy man he’d found crying in the washroom, seeing him fall apart and feel so much… it’s nothing Jonathan has been able to forget, nothing he’s ever been able to think of as ‘just’ a hook-up.

“That’s—okay. I guess, I’m just trying to say, pretty badly, that it meant a lot to me, how you, uh, treated me that night. And I only could get to the point of coming out because of it. So, thanks. And come to a game? As thanks. Christ,” Patrick finishes with a mutter.

Jonathan can’t help laughing, hopes Patrick knows it isn’t really at him. “I’d love to come,” he says, grinning into his phone helplessly.

“Awesome,” Patrick says, sounding deeply relieved. “I can get you two tickets, if you have someone you want to bring.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow at _that_ , but it’s not exactly a come-on, he tells himself. “No, one’s fine.”

“You can bring a friend, it’s cool.”

“Nah,” Jonathan says. “I mean, I’d rather catch up after, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

“Yes,” Patrick says firmly, sounding pleased. “I’ll leave a ticket at will-call and they’ll give you instructions for after the game, how’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” Jonathan says, looking up at the knock on his door. Julia’s standing there, finger tapping her watch impatiently—right, debrief before their two o’clock mediation. “Listen, I have to go, I’m at work, but I’ll definitely be there.”

“No worries, but—can I get your name? They’ll want ID at will-call.”

“Yeah, it’s Jonathan with no H, and Toews—spelled weirdly though, you’ll want to write it down.”

“Shoot.”

Jonathan spells it out and says, “That good?”

“Yeah man, I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Jonathan hangs up and grabs the Rocha files off his desk. “Sorry Julia, I’m set.”

“You better be, Toes,” she says, grinning at his eye-roll. Hockey, college, law school, the firm—there’s a nickname he’s never going to lose.

  


~

  


The game is good. No, actually, the game is _excellent_. The Avs are coming off their Cup-winning season and still hot, and Chicago’s finally filled its holes down the middle and is leading in the West. The Avs light it up with their break-out plays twice, but it’s Duchene who gets the game-winner on his own breakaway, catching a perfect, barely-onside stretch pass from Patrick Kane.

It’s amazing, especially with his view five rows up, behind the benches, and if it makes his heart ache for what could have been, just a little—well, Jonathan’s used to that, by now.

When it’s over and Jonathan’s made it down to the hallways to linger impatiently with friends and family waiting to meet the players, he can’t help but wonder what Patrick means by all this. Is it really just a thank-you? Does he even remember what Jonathan said, a year and a half ago? Would Jonathan even say yes if Patrick asks him out? They clicked, no question, but that night hadn’t been anything normal, and Jonathan’s wary of assuming the affinity he’d felt for Patrick then was in any way returned. Closeted, frustrated, unhappy—Patrick might have gone home with the first friendly face. It likely had little to do with Jonathan himself.

Still, when Patrick and a couple teammates—Saad and Teuvo—spill out from the locker room, the way Patrick’s face lights up when he spots Jonathan has nothing to do with wanting to be saved.

“Jonathan!” he says, pulling him in for a back-slapping bro-hug. “Glad you made it.”

“Course,” Jonathan says, returning the hug. “Thanks for the great seat, it was quite a game.”

“Sorry for your team,” Patrick says, sarcastic and sticking out his tongue.

“Yeah, they’re suffering so much, carrying around that championship and all,” Jonathan says, deadpan, and Patrick laughs, bright and loud. It’s such a strange contrast to all of Jonathan’s intimate memories of him that he laughs, too, surprised and pleased.

“So,” Patrick says, shouldering Jonathan down the hall, away from the crowd. “I don’t know if you drove or anything…”

“Nope, no car.”

“Good, then I will. You okay with a late late dinner? I need to eat.” Patrick looks sideways at him, pulling a beanie from his coat pocket and dragging it on. “If that’s—”

“That sounds great,” Jonathan interrupts, smiling down at Patrick.

“Great, it’s a date,” Patrick says, and then his eyes go wide. “I mean—”

“Hey,” Jonathan says mildly. “I did offer.”

“Yeah, a _year and a half_ ago,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes.

“Honestly,” Jonathan says. “This is faster than I thought it would be.”

“Oh. Well,” Patrick says, shrugging and pushing open the door to the parking lot. “Let’s just—get to know each other again. Or, you know,” he says, letting Jonathan slip by him, “at all.”

“It’s a plan.”

  


~

  


Jonathan wasn’t sure what to expect from dinner, but it turns out to be good steak at a casual gastropub and easy conversation. They work their way through the game, the Hawks’ second-round exit last season to the Avs, Patrick’s third trip to the Olympics, Jonathan’s trip home at (Canadian) Thanksgiving, his brother’s kids, and his job, before ending up on how he got to Chicago.

“Followed a boyfriend,” he says, lingering over his second pint. “He came here to do corporate law, I followed, but—wasn’t my thing.”

“No?” Patrick says. “I feel like I can see you kicking ass and taking names in a sharp suit.”

“Nah,” Jonathan says. “After that fell apart I realized I hated everybody I was working with. I’d made a couple of contacts in the city, though, and got into Julia’s firm. I speak Spanish—and French, though that’s less useful, here.”

“Your mom is from Québec?”

“Yep.”

“Why Spanish, then? Toews doesn’t exactly sound Spanish.”

“Learned in college. It’s pretty easy, being fluent in a Romance language already.”

“Ah yes,” Patrick says. “French, the language of love.”

“Mais oui,” Jonathan says with a grin. Patrick laughs into his glass, cheeks dimpled and eyes bright in the warm lights of the restaurant. “You seem—”

Patrick tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Happy.”

“Yeah,” Patrick repeats, expression going serious as he puts down his drink. “I am really sorry, by the way, for how much of a wreck I was last time. It wasn’t the best impression I’ve ever made.”

“Don’t be,” Jonathan says. “It was—I guess it felt good, to, I don’t know. Be something for you, like that.” He flushes a little, playing with his napkin in his lap.

“It was something. It was a _big_ something,” Patrick says, serious. “When you walked out I thought I’d just be going back to shoving everything down, but having that—not just the sex, having someone _see_ me, the way you did—it made it impossible to keep lying to myself.”

“And everyone else.”

“Eventually,” Patrick says. “Took a year. I mean, I only came out to my family this summer, and the team at training camp. So it took a while, but, uh, I was a lot. Less repressed before that.” He makes a face, and laughs a little.

“Not so much the virgin now, huh?” Jonathan says, unable to keep the teasing smile off his face as he leans in to the table.

“Um,” Patrick says, downing the last of his beer and pushing the glass aside. “Less, at least.”

Jonathan watches as Patrick’s eyes drop to his mouth, licking his lips and pressing a palm to the table. “How much less?” Jonathan asks, voice dropping down into a lower register.

“Sucked a lot more dicks,” Patrick says, leaning across the shallow table to keep his voice quiet. It’s rough, too, as he goes on. “You were right about me liking that.”

“I thought so,” Jonathan says, sliding his hand down his glass between them. Patrick’s gaze falls to his grip, and Jonathan rubs his thumb in the condensation.

“Fucked a couple guys, too,” Patrick goes on. He tilts his face back up, cheeks flushed, and meets Jonathan’s eyes. “Haven’t been fucked, though.”

Jonathan swallows. “Never met the right guy?”

“You tell me,” Patrick says, and Jonathan inhales. “I wasn’t waiting,” Patrick adds. “It just never felt right. I think it might, with you.”

Jonathan empties his beer in a single gulp, trying to clear his head before he says, “I said I don’t fuck around.”

“Not asking for that,” Patrick says, and it’s easy but Jonathan can see the nervousness in how Patrick’s rubbing circles into the wood of the tabletop with his index finger.

“No?”

Patrick meets his eyes, gaze frank but not unhappy. “I liked—this,” he waves between them. “I like _you._ So I figure, we can leave it here, for closure, if that’s what you want, or become friends and talk hockey and shit, or—”

“—or?” Jonathan says, mouth dry.

“Or I can take you home and you can give me another first time,” Patrick says, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a smile.

“Is that what you want?” Jonathan asks.

“Nope,” Patrick says, leaning back and looking satisfied. “This time, it’s up to you.”

  
~

**Author's Note:**

> I am, of course, [on tumblr](http://demotu.tumblr.com), where I apparently post stories. APPARENTLY.
> 
> ETA 15.01.25: There is a teeny almost not-fic timestamp on tumblr [here](http://demotu.tumblr.com/post/109112360576/sarapod-monalisasnmadhatters-jesus-mary-and)!


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